13 Dorset Street, Baker Street:
Tuesday, [July-August 1855].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I have waited days and days in the answering of
your dear, kind, welcoming letter, and yet I have been very very
grateful for it. Thank you. I need such things in England above other
places.

For the rest, we could not go to Herefordshire, even if I were rational,
which I am not; I could as soon open a coffin as do it: there's the
truth. The place is nothing to me, of course, only the string round a
faggot burnt or scattered. But if I went there, the thought of _one
face_ which never ceases to be present with me (and which I parted from
for ever in my poor blind unconsciousness with a pettish word) would
rise up, put down all the rest, and prevent my having one moment of
ordinary calm intercourse with you, so don't ask me; set it down to
mania or obstinacy, but I never _could_ go into that neighbourhood,
except to die, which I think sometimes I should like. So you may have me
some day when the physicians give me up, but then, you won't, you know,
and it wouldn't, any way, be merry visiting.

Foolish to write all this! As if any human being could know thoroughly
what _he_ was to me. It must seem so extravagant, and perhaps affected,
even to _you_, who are large-hearted and make allowances. After these
years!

And, after all, I might have just said the other truth, that we are at
the end of our purse, and can't travel any more, not even to Taunton,
where poor Henrietta, who is hindered from coming to me by a like
pecuniary straitness, begs so hard that we should go. Also, we are bound
to London by business engagements; a book in the press (Robert's two
volumes), and _proofs_ coming in at all hours. We have been asked to two
or three places at an hour's distance from London, and can't stir; to
Knebworth, for instance, where Sir Edward Lytton wants us to go. It
would be amusing in some ways; but we are tired. Also Robert's sister is
staying with us.

Also, we shall see you in Paris on the way to Pau next November, shall
we not? Write and tell me that we shall, and that you are not disgusted
with me meanwhile.

Do you know our news? Alfred is just married at the Paris Embassy to
Lizzie Barrett.... Of course, he makes the third exile from Wimpole
Street, the course of true love running remarkably rough in our house.
For the rest, there have been no _scenes_, I thank God, for dearest
Arabel's sake. He had written to my father nine or ten days before the
ceremony, received no answer, and followed up the silence rather briskly
by another letter to announce his marriage.... I am going to write to
him at Marseilles.

You cannot imagine to yourself the unsatisfactory and disheartening
turmoil in which we are at present. It's the mad bull and the china
shop, and, _nota bene_, we are the china shop. People want to see if
Italy has cut off our noses, or what! A very kind anxiety certainly, but
so horribly fatiguing that my heart sinks, and my brain goes round under
the process. O my Florence! how much better you are!

Have you heard that Wilson is married to a Florentine who lived once
with the Peytons, and is here now with us, a good, tender-hearted
man?[46]

I am tolerably well, though to breathe this heavy air always strikes me
as difficult; and my little Penini is very well, thank God. I want so
much to show him to you. We shall be here till the end of September, if
the weather admits of it, then go to Paris for the winter, then return
to London, and then--why, _that_ 'then' is too far off to see. Only we
talk of Italy in the distance.

My book is not ready for the press yet; and as to writing here, who
could produce an epic in the pauses of a summerset? Not that my poem is
an epic, I hurry on to say in consideration for dear Mr. Martin's
feelings. I flatter myself it's a _novel_, rather, a sort of novel in
verse. Arabel looks well.

What pens! What ink! Do write, and tell me of _you both_. I love you
cordially indeed.

Your ever affectionate
BA.